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It would make sense John wouldn’t even have comfortable lounge chairs. Rook’s sprawled in one, foot planted on the ground while the other swings in the air, draped over one wooden slab of an arm. Trying his level best to obtain comfort despite John, as usual, making life difficult for him by very merit of the...everything about him. He’d spotted the little campfire area when he’d been “liberating” John’s house--mostly to annoy John and partially because he had a sneaking suspicion John’s bed might be the only place he’d be able to get a good night’s sleep in Hope County. It had seemed the perfect place to unwind at the end of a long day.
And it would have been. If John clearly hadn’t designed this area for someone else, someone who didn’t mind a chair that made their ass go numb in six seconds and didn’t mind the smoke in their face whenever the air arbitrarily changed direction.
Still. Beats sitting inside the house and trying to get drunk, with every well-meaning insomniac asking him if he’s alright, if he needs someone to talk to, if he “oughta be drinking that much...seems a lot for one person.”
Whatever. The forest doesn’t judge him. Neither does Boomer, who’s growling into the underbrush surrounding them. He only judges the creatures of the night and John Seed.
Wait.
“Uh…” Rook sits up slightly, winces when his back immediately protests the movement. “Can I...help you?”
John looks no worse for wear after losing his house. A bit bedraggled, like he’d had to walk a bit to get here, hair slipping out of its usual slick style. But hale and hearty and glaring Boomer down from the other edge of the fire.
“Call off your guard dog, Deputy.”
Rook sucks his teeth--only to wince when the whiskey that’s probably clinging to the enamel makes him nearly gag.
“Mmmm, no. Because it is very late and I am well on my way to drunk and I am not going to be murdered tonight.”
John holds his hands up, steps close enough the small fire lights up his form.
“I come bearing no weapons or ill will. I just...need to get something from my house.” He winces, scowls, shoots Rook a baleful sort of glare. “Well, what was once my house.”
“Ohhh,” Rook drawls, nudging over his small pack with his foot. “Your weed? Yeah, grabbed it off the table. S’in there.”
John’s head whips around as he hisses out a breath between his teeth.
“Could you lower your voice, please?”
“Relax, crazy-man. Just us out here. See, the Resistance--unlike you Eden’s Gate assholes--actually respect my requests to be left the hell alone.”
“If you would just join us--”
“I have absolutely no problem kicking my whole pack into the fire if it means burning your shit in the process.” Rook informs him mildly, tipping the bottle back to his mouth as John fists his hands at his sides and stays obediently silent.
It takes another few long moments, John regarding him across the flames and Boomer still growling low, before John inclines his head. Rook waves Boomer away with a click of his tongue, the dog’s intelligent eyes surveying the scene for a moment before he trots off with a huff. John rounds the fire, settles next to him to dig and pulls out the little baggie Rook had stuffed down in the bottom to keep Sharky or Hurk from getting their hands on it.
He’s still not sure why he did it. It’s not like he knew John would be back for it or like he has any use for the drug.
“May I?” John gestures to the other empty chair and Rook copies the motion lazily.
“Knock yourself out. Just leave me the hell alone.”
Silence reigns for a bit, blissfully enough. Rook is able to work his way through another portion of his bottle with little more than the crackling of the fire and John’s rustling for company. It’s not until there’s the click and spit of a lighter and an all too familiar smell drifting his way than Rook bothers looking over.
“You really couldn’t wait? Or not do that here?”
“What do you suggest I do?” John drags off it, coughs slightly, before blowing a breath into the air. “Take it back with me? Go meet with my brothers with it on my person?”
“You could fuck off?”
“Funny.” John takes another hit, longer this time, like he’s forcing his lungs to adjust. “Did you want some?”
“Pass.” Rook wiggles the bottle. “Got my drug of choice right here. And I can’t anyhow. Unless you wanna see me put out the fire with puke.”
“It’s supposed to suppress nausea.”
“Thank you, Dr. Seed.” Rook rolls his eyes. “I’m well aware. But it doesn’t for me--I dunno why. I start coughing and I immediately choke and throw up.”
“Is the inhale the issue?”
“Y’know, John,” Rook swallows heavily, waves the bottle at him. “I don’t know. And I don’t really care. And I feel like--and correct me if I’m wrong here--this is the last thing you and I should be chatting about. Knowing your crazy ass, you’ll tell someone else and Jacob’s next trial or what the fuck ever is going to be smoking enough blunts to kill myself.”
“I’m trying to solve a problem. I’m particularly good at doing that.”
“You,” Rook shoves a finger at John’s smirking little smile, “are good at causing problems. For me, in particular, but literally for everyone.”
“I could be good at solving them too. Sit properly; I want to try something.”
Rook narrows his eyes but he’s a little too drunk, a little too cozy by the fire to really argue. What he does do, however, is reach down into the same pack John had rifled through and pull his knife free before settling back. John arches one brow, clearly unimpressed, but slips onto his lap easy as water anyhow.
He can’t quite grip his hips to keep him steady, plus the chair doesn’t allow for it, so John winds up tucking his feet behind the bends of Rook’s knees, one hand on his shoulder. Rook ignores the tingle in his palms that says he wants to hold John still atop him, especially with the wriggling and subtle grinding to get into place making him believe whiskey dick is just a myth.
Predictably, his stomach churns at the smell of weed so close, nose wrinkling up as he tips his head to the side. He’s not actively allergic, he doesn’t think, probably something closer to a conditioned response at this point.
Which doesn’t bear thinking about because then he starts thinking about other “conditioned responses” he’s been forced to have.
“I don’t think this is gonna--”
“Shhh,” John grips his chin, tips his head back to right, gentler than Rook honestly thought he was capable of. “Trust me.”
Rook doesn’t. He doesn’t trust John Seed as far as he can throw him. But he complies, keeps still as John takes a drag so heavy it seems to suck the air out from around them. He lowers the blunt to his side, leans in close, so close their lips brush for a split second.
Oh. Right. Rook had had Hurk try and do something similar once. Except he’s fairly certain he nailed Hurk in the thigh for trying and he doesn’t...really want to push John away.
John’s exhale is slow, slow enough Rook can make the conscious decision to drag in a breath. The air feels too hot inside his mouth, though he’s fairly sure that’s just because John’s not drawing back. He draws it deep, lets his chest expand, and glances up with wide eyes when nothing spasms in his throat.
No coughing. No choking. No shoving John off to lunge to the side.
Just an easy slow exhale between them and John’s too blue eyes, sharp and bright even in the darkness.
“Well?”
“Do it again.”
John grins, almost seems to want to laugh. But he complies, taking another hit, the cherry flaring bright close to his fingers. Rook is ready for the next one, already inhaling by the time John’s mouth brushes his. It’s intimate in stupid ways, ways that haven’t satisfied him since he was a teenager.
But it’s enough to have him pressing up into the lazy rolls of John’s hips, whiskey bottle slipping from his hand so he can grab hold. He keeps the knife because he’s not an idiot, something that doesn’t escape John’s attention as he grins down.
“Still don’t trust me, Deputy?”
“Not a single fucking bit.” Rook answers, head lolling, limbs loose and relaxed under John’s weight. “But I can put up with you, I guess. For a bit.”
“Kind of you,” John mutters, one last drag before he turns, pitches what little is left into the fire and leans in too close on the return.
Close enough that Rook exhales the shared hit back into John’s mouth. Close enough that John’s tongue presses in, taking without asking, fingers twisted up in Rook’s shirt.
“Verdict, Deputy?”
“Still not my preference.” Rook murmurs against his mouth, tugging him down with every thrust, sparks of muted pleasure crawling slow behind the alcohol in his veins. “My mouth feels...weird.”
“Give it time. You’ll adjust.”
“Are you suggesting a repeat?”
“Would you resist?” John asks, something more in his voice Rook can’t quite put his finger on. He’s too drunk, just a little buzzed, and not nearly in the right state of mind to be figuring out the double talk John is so fucking good at utilizing.
“Ask me again tomorrow.”